Tales from Paramecia
by Sycronas
Summary: Experimental writings concerning the SF2 universe.
1. A Tower Sleeps

"Stay here." Slade whispered to his two companions, as he took the lead with torch in hand. Jez and Rondo both nodded in solemn agreement. There was no telling what kind of traps lay waiting for them within the hallowed halls of the ancient tower, and Slade wasn't the type to of thief to take any unnecessary risks. Those lead to an early grave.

Slade crept forward slowly, cautiously, examining every stone tile, every primordial crack, anything at all that might conceal some sort of secret. It was not just the traps that concerned Slade, for he knew that if the legend of the jewels held any truth they would not be easy to locate. Even the action of entering the shrine had been no easy task. Had the vicious storm not sent away the usual patrol they might not have been able to get inside at all. It was almost as if fate itself had opened the door for Slade this night, given him this one opportunity for greatness. The world had been a cruel mistress to the thief. Poverty stricken and forever overlooked by Galam's elite, he had been forced to scratch out a living at the bottom of his kingdom's twisted economic hierarchy. The chasm between rich and poor sickened him. Slade felt no guilt in breaking laws to balance the disparity.

The King was not an evil man, merely out of touch. He had kept their nation strong and grand, even through the most perilous of times, but though their military flourished, the kingdom's social programs had grown ineffective, not that they had ever been subject to very much praise. The bulk of the taxes had always gone towards the army. It would always be this way. Slade found that he could not respect the King, nor those who came before him, for he could respect no man who chooses to spend more gold on crafting swords than on starving peasants.

The thief then noticed, as he turned the corner, a set of steps leading down to one of the lower chambers. He grabbed a piece of rubble that was strewn across the ground and tossed it at the stairs hard. Slade half expected a set of spikes to shoot out from the wall in an attempt to skewer intruders like himself, but nothing occurred. All remained still.

Perhaps the traps of the tower had already been triggered long ago, Slade thought, by foolish amateurs seeking to claim their fortunes, or perhaps there was still strange magic alive within the shrine, magic they had yet to encounter. Either way Slade had no intention of turning back. They'd come much too far to leave this place empty handed. This was the greatest chance they'd ever had to make something of themselves. He motioned for his companions to follow and they dutifully obeyed, their hearts yearning to look upon the treasures of the ancients.

"Be careful on these steps, we don't know what might be down there." Slade warned, whilst he drew his dagger and crept tactfully down the stone staircase. Jez and Rondo nodded but said nothing with their swords drawn. Slade had not led them astray this far. They continued to trust in his words.

The thunder seemed to roar with vengeance as they drew ever closer to the bottom. Slade felt the aura of something powerful, something he could not fully comprehend. There was a force calling to the thief within the tower, a call he willfully answered. He would gladly take uncertain risks when the possible gain appeared to balance out the possible costs of failure. A single treasure from the old ones could potentially change everything that had ever gone wrong for him, for his friends, even for many of the serfs who continued to endure suffer poverty upon Galam's cold streets. That chance alone was reason enough to press on.

At long last, they came to the bottom chamber of the tower. Runes were written on every block of the wall, inscriptions placed there long ago by the ancients. He wondered if in their infinite wisdom they had foreseen this occurrence, foreseen thieves defiling the sanctity of their shrine. Legends spoke of a great darkness sealed within this place, but Slade had categorized the tales as nonsense. Demons, devils, dark Gods, he had no interest in theology. Riches, riches were all that counted. He wondered now, if there had been truth to those stories. He sensed something in his heart, something strong, but quickly dismissed it as mere anxiety. There was too much at stake to allow for hesitation. The thief then advanced ahead of his comrades swiftly and confidently, feeling what he sought was now within reach. That's when he saw them, glimmering upon an old pedestal, the legendary jewels of light and evil.

"This…this is it…" Slade said, awestruck by his findings. Jez and Rondo hurriedly entered the chamber behind him and were equally amazed to see the glimmering pieces of jewelry resting comfortably, undisturbed by the passage of time. One of them was blue, surrounded by a bright aura. The other was red, bearing a hazy blood-red glow. Forgetting the caution with which they had advanced throughout the shrine, Rondo sprang forward and made a grab for the blue jewel. 

"Hold it!" The rat yelled, but by then Rondo had already grabbed the jewel of light. The man was not harmed as Slade anticipated he would be. Instead, Rondo simply found he could not make the precious gem move even a single inch from where it lay. He tried again with more force, but gained no results for his effort. They just remained stagnate, unmoved.

"I can't get the damned thing. It won't budge." Rondo said, confused. With a scoff, Jez stepped forward and pushed him out of the way. 

"Move over. Let me show you how a real man does it." Jez remarked, grabbing the same jewel He applied similar force, and yet despite the strength of Slade's companions neither one succeeded in acquiring the objects. Jez looked even more shocked then Rondo at the resistance, as there was nothing visible holding the jewels in place. He nearly fell backwards from the last good pull he gave. They then tried several times to free the red treasure, but it too laughed in their faces.

"Give it up you two, there's obviously something else at work here and all you're going to do is damage them." Slade uttered angrily as he walked over to the pedestal, examining the jewels himself. He put away the dagger and handed the torch to Jez, then gazed into the heart of the ancient treasures.

"There has to be some kind of spell protecting them. Now how do we break it…?" Slade asked, placing his hands instinctively on both jewels. Something triggered inside the rat's mind, but he didn't know what. Somehow he sensed this was the right course of action. The nameless force was calling to him, ever stronger. With eager fingers, he grasped both the jewel of evil and the jewel of light, pulling them with all his power. There was a great flash and then Slade found himself strewn upon the floor, a treasure in each hand. The thieves were shocked beyond words.

"My god…you did it Slade. You have the jewels!" Rondo said helping him up from the ground. Slade shook his head. Whatever happened had dazed him, though a single glance at the jewels seemed to wear away the stun. The men then stood for a moment, their eyes transfixed upon the treasures, those that would make them kings, free them of their lives of thievery and banditry. Several thoughts ran through Slade's mind as he gazed deeply into the gems. He pondered for a moment if the riches of the world would corrupt him, make him like the very order he had spent his whole life defying. He saw the greed in his companions' eyes. It was the same greed he saw in all men, even himself.

_Are we no different from the ruling class? _Slade asked himself.

The thief had no time to conjure up an answer. In that same moment a burst of lightning tore the land asunder, and the ancient tower itself began to shake. They steadied themselves, felt the ground beneath them giving way, while the shrine growled at them with angry resentment.

"Move quickly!" Slade ordered before tucking the jewels into his pack. The thieves wasted no time in running for the stairs, as it appeared the entire shrine was destined to fall upon them. They were quite fortunate. As they ascended the staircase with great haste, fear of death pushing them beyond their physical limitations, pieces of the tower fell all around them. Some of it should have hit them, even killed them, yet not a single shard of stone made contact with their bodies. It was as if the Goddess herself was protecting them.

_Does Mitula now favor me? _

When finally they reached the main room, the thieves bolted for the entrance. As they did, several giant pieces of the shrine came loose from the ceiling. Slade felt the shock of the debris hitting the floor right when his feet he exited the shrine. Everything behind them collapsed.

The three men were nearly breathless once they got out into the rain. The winds howled, and the darkness of the storm intensified. The thieves were merely grateful to have escaped with their lives. They crept away into the night, offering thankful prayers to the Goddess whom they thought had never cared for them. Slade gazed back into the distance for a single moment, halting their retreat, as a bolt of lightning scorched the earth. He thought he heard a man scream.


	2. A foolish Sage

My thoughts are often constrained. I do not rest well, even now in my old age. The moments and images have long since passed from my vision, yet I am haunted by my memories, those lingering like possessive gizmos in the depths of night. When we abandoned Moun and all those who resided within her, I questioned the very nature of my faith in Mitula, as while as the authenticity of transcendent morality. Innocence, what does such a word signify? Is it more than a mere linguistic construction? The brutality of this world sickens me, and even following the defeat of the Devil King, I find that I cannot reconcile with the massacre at Moun, nor can I reconcile with the dualisms that dominant our perception of light,darkness, and intrinsic evil. If such a thing indeed exists. As a result of these inquiries, my belief in the existence of an objective morality has weakened greatly, as has my once unwavering loyalty to the Goddess.

Long had I dwelt in her temple, deep in study and prayer. I believed in my worship and learning, I would attain truth, for she was a celestial being possessing wisdom that is far beyond what mortal men can know. The teachings of the Goddess, while idealistic and virtuous in nature, lack practical application in this realm. We speak of the devils as though they are our only concern, but men can be just as monstrous as the beasts they slay, and in concerns to such a species, I find that I can neither accept, nor reject moral relativism, for even now I ponder man's self proclaimed divinity.

I have spent many nights lying awake, remembering the civilians that perished in result of my cowardice, and though it does grieve me greatly, I find that I can do no more to repent. I was present when the Devil King was banished once more to the Nether Realm, and I prayed over top corpses of the Moun's fallen. I hope when I pass I will be forgiven for these sins, though the blood remains imprinted, and these moments are but shards.

I spent unnumbered hours in council with King Pacalon IV, discussing and calculating our response to the invading devil forces. As a historian, I sometimes struggle to set aside my personal bias when critiquing his reign, for though history does not smile upon many of his policies, I myself came to know him as a wise and loving ruler, albeit cowardly. He feared greatly the spilling of his people's blood, feared what would become of Paramecia if the gate was to be opened.

He had seen the once seemingly invincible armies of the Pacalon Knights grow weak and vulnerable, with victory no longer an assured consequence of battle. This was due in part to poor harvests, which required funding and labor derived from the military budget, and yet also because of an absurd, inherited arrogance that had festered among their ranks due to their extensive, and to some extent romanticized, military history. Their blades thus became dulled, and the most arrogant and brash among them were the first to fall. As the great knight Higgins experienced when he engaged Geshep, and all of his companions were killed, no longer were the knights invincible, and defeat was not an unlikely outcome of open war with Zeon's armies. All of these factors led to the breaking of the treaty with Moun, and to this day, it weighs heavily upon my conscience.

Though the great kingdom was indeed comprised largely of a knightly class, one that subscribed to a strict set of principles and tenants defining the nature of honor, and that which constitutes an honourable existence, I find that King Pacalon IV was unlike his father, and was far more of an aristocrat than a soldier. This is not an wholly negative attribute, as the king's social reforms were quite desirable and radical in comparison to those of his father and grandfather. I mean only to say that in King Pacalon IV, we can observe a notable step in Pacalon's history concerning the progression from Warrior-Kings to aristocrats. Though war was somewhat scarce in those times, the king's father did indeed lead troops from the front on two separate occasions. Though much smaller in scale, these battles serve as precursors to the War of Two Jewels. It is important to observe that during one of these two skirmishes, King Pacalon III was nearly mortally wounded by a Death Archer in the midst of battle. Had the arrow struck him but a few inches lower, his heart would have been pierced. I feel that near death of his father instilled a fear of war into the young prince, he who was already much more interested in scholarship than becoming a combat artisan.

It is my belief that the regrettable decision to seal the gate was influenced by fears that King Pacalon IV had harboured since his youth in conjunction with a staunch desire to shield his people from destruction. I know full well the consequences of his decision, and the great number of innocents who died as a result of his cowardice, but even so I cannot condemn the king, for though he was afraid, it was love of his people that stayed his hand. When asked about the subject of war, King Pacalon IV had this to say:

"Rune has not been a peaceful place. There has been war between light and darkness since time uncounted, and even now the cycle continues in perpetual absurdity. I have no love of war, I have no love of the blade. I have long ago cast away primitive illusions of glory and death upon the field. Life is a precious thing, and blood does not wash easily from one's hands."

Memoirs of a Foolish Sage

-Frayja


	3. His Eyes Were Odd

The sword glows blue in my hands. The archaic symbols of the nether realm gleam with diluted passion, and I gaze with longing at my reflection in the weapon, comforted to see myself clad in dark mail, shrouded in a haze of shadow and malice. The blade is weightless in my arms. Both majestic and beautiful, the dark sword is a part of my being that I had long since forgotten, yet one that is so very dear to me. I had felt naked without her touch.

The devils gather stalwart at the front of my line, they're faces twisted and their hearts filled with great blood lust. They are my subordinates, but they are not my brethren. I care nothing for their fate. We serve the same God, that I cannot deny, but we are not of the same making. That which flows through my veins does not flow through theirs. I am the instrument, the incarnate will of the devil king. The favor I hold, as a son, and as a martyr, is beyond their comprehension. This fate was always meant for me. I do not exist outside of this purpose.

I look upon my former comrades from across the transparent floor of the ancient seal, as our forces prepare to engage one another. I see in their eyes they do not wish to destroy me, though they know now there is no other way to achieve their ends. So many steps had I taken, without vision and without knowledge, alongside their caravan. I recall even now the soft breeze of the wind, as we traversed the grasslands of the west, and the warmth of the sun upon my face. I recall my many talks with Sir Peter beneath the stars, while the fire of the camp grew dim, and all others had departed for sleep. We spoke of wisdom and of knowledge, and of Volcanon's divinty.

I felt bliss in those days. There was no great burden on my shoulders. I was free to go as I wished, to obtain empirical knowledge of Paramecia, and of those I now seek to destroy. Do I regret ever having felt this bliss? Having undertaken such a journey, even at the price of my dignity? No, I daresay even now, as I prepare to slaughter them, one by one, that those moments remain precious to me. For the duration of my long existence, a commodity I no longer conceptualize in years, I had known nothing apart from this life, a cyclical occurrence of death and avarice. Loss of memory offered me another path, one I would have never known, had I not stepped forth from the boundaries of my limited perception. By walking this other path, I came to appreciate the value and beauty of my life as a destroyer. Creed himself once told me, as we spoke over one of our many games:

"He who spends his whole life on a single road, content and certain, without turning to see another, is condemned to life without foresight. One can measure nothing, if he has nothing with which to compare it. Only those consumed by arrogance and foolishness believe they have obtained the answer to a question without searching for it in many places, for there are many facets to the world, just as there are many facets to the mind. To step forward, is to step away."

I find it somewhat comical now, that I, the greatest and most powerful of my father's servants, a greater devil, should be reduced to a meek boy stricken by blindness. I appeared no more than a child to their eyes, helpless and ignorant. I had become a mockery of that which I had been before, the strength and pride of my blood suppressed. And for many days I walked alongside the forces of light, speaking, and listening to them, without knowledge of my true self. When I remembered the past, it was as if I had awoken from a great sleep, as though my consciousness had been renewed. The strength and nobility that had once flowed through my veins came alive again, and as I sat across from Creed, the dark aura of my father surrounding my body, I was reborn in the black celestial fires of malice, and I remembered my undying love for shadows.

It was then I first had the opportunity to recollect my duel with Volcanon at the foot of Bedoe. How empowered I felt, as the dark energies flowed through me, and I laughed in the face of their God. He looked at me with wrath, and brought down from the heavens his will, striking me with vengeance. Had I not been partially protected by my father, my form would have been destroyed, and the consciousness would have been lost somewhere between the void and the requiem. Yet, even in defeat, as the lightning crashed about me, and I fell into my sleep, I am grateful to have fought him. I am grateful to have sought the destruction of a God. I have long desired such chaos.

I watch them now from afar, for the battle is now joined, and I would not attack my foes out of turn. My troops are frenzied, their lustful desire to inflict pain has been invigorated, and a red light gleams across that which is now a killing field. Bowie's army does not tarry. They meet my servants with bravery and valor, traits I had long observed in them when once I was part of their caravan. There is a great clash, and a synthesis of sword, lance, and flame unfolds before my eyes, the energies of war erupting in an array of beautiful destruction. The struggle lasts for many moments, the breaking of light and shadow, until finally I step forward and draw my own sword.

The tide has turned against me, the resolve of the devils weakening in face of Bowie's stalwart advance. I am not concerned. The outcome of this battle is not one that will be determined by the actions of my subordinates, nor those under the command of my great enemy. The two of us stand apart from our hosts, and the end of the conflict rests upon our shoulders. Perhaps a part of me knew, even when I still traveled alongside him, that we would someday meet in this fashion. Unconsciously, I sensed what it was that dwelled within me, just as I sensed the light that dwelled within him. Dualism, that too is beautiful.

He steps towards me, but no words are exchanged. The black soldier that stands before him is an alien thing, one that hardly resembles that blind boy who once walked at his side beneath the trees, and across the hills, content to hear the voices of the spirits in humble serenity. I see that he is troubled, and that his hand does not easily point the sword at me. Yet I feel he knows now that Oddler is no more, if ever he existed at all, and that there will be no escaping this bloodshed.

I save him the trouble of attacking, granting him the moral high ground he requires to engage me in combat. My blade cuts through the air with malice and precision, leaving behind wisps of dark haze. He raises his weapon, the reincarnation of the chaos breaker, and defends.

His instincts are exceptional. Only once before had I witnessed such a demonstration, witnessed such heroic virtue engraved in a man's eyes. Why is that I wonder? How could the two be so very much alike? Even in Max, I did not see that which I have seen in them, this humble radiance, this dormant fire. It is beyond even my ability to articulate. But alas, I must discard such nostalgia, for Ian is dead, and though Bowie bears his eyes, I must destroy him. I cannot afford to be hindered by compassion, nor empathy.

The sounds of battle intensify, and the climax draws near. The dying screams of my troops do not trouble me, for I see and feel only my opponent. We strike at one another, and speak to another only through our swordplay. I have fought and killed heroes before. I have murdered them in battle, and I have slain them in their sleep. Yet still, I cannot help but think I would feel shame, shame if I were to have acquired my victory from some other means apart from this. I feel the need to fight and kill in the fashion of a warrior, rather than an executioner. I have been both and I remain both, yet now it seems unethical to kill him in a dishonorable form. Why has that thought crossed my mind? Why now, do I feel twinges of moral dilemma erupting in my mind, questioning ethics even in the heat of battle, whilst our blades meet? Why did I not kill him from afar while my troops waylaid him, let loose the destruction from my gaze and achieve victory? Have I become soft?

We dance. Our blades of light and shadow become entangled in this waltz, and their clashing resonates throughout the halls of the ancient seal. We fall into a trance, hypontized by the marred beauty of war, our minds held captive by the dying embers of battle. I fight him well, I do not hold back. Yet do why I feel as though I cannot slay him? My purpose, it remains the same, the same as it was when I first came vaulting into existence from the ashes of my father's hand. I must destroy this hero. They die daily, martyred for their bravery. It is what makes them into legends. In essence, I am doing this man honor beyond that which we he will ever know.

At last, we embrace the falling action upon the stage. He strikes. I cannot evade. The light travels through my gut, and the blade wrenches in my spine. I feel it pierce me through the back, and stand now on legs that struggle to support my weight. He pulls free his weapon and I feel myself fall freely to the ground. My remaining servants are slaughtered, and those I once traveled with crowd around my decaying form. It happens so fast, my mind struggles to conceptualize.

What is this weakness, that which has wrought my death, and led to my grave? Why do the moments I spent walking amidst the wood keep returning? Why cannot I rid myself of these demons in my head? I once had power, power so vast that few could fathom. I once wielded dark flame and brought ruin down upon the the lives of men. Where is my power now? Where can I find it? Why do the hills seem so beautiful?

Bowie, he looks at me but does not speak. His eyes, those that reminded me of Ian's, bear sorrow. They grieve for me. Why do they grieve? We were companions once, but the boy they knew was false, and he has been murdered. I killed him with my own two hands, and I watched the life fade from him, as it fades now from me.

Creed, what was it the old fool spoke to me? That day I finally defeated him in chess. He looked at me, as his king fell. We sat quiet for many moments, and than he said: "One can only know salvation through the death of a dream. One must watch that which once gave them purpose, wither and decay, until all that is left is the ruptured corpse of memories. It is there, amidst the silence and despair, that one can find salvation, for truth lies not in our dreams, but in the passing of dreams."

My malice...it has been relinquished. I longer feel her touch upon my heart. That from which I spawned has fallen into dissolution, and my purpose is lost. I am glad at least, that I have seen mountains, for the road we traveled was a pleasant thing to walk upon. I long now, for rebirth.


End file.
